Where We Used to Live
by Osidiano
Summary: Written for the pwkinkmeme: request was to have Larry break into Cindy Stone's old apartment and seriously reflect on his life. Inspired and motivated by a Barenaked Ladies song.


**Disclaimer/Notes**: I do not own any of the Phoenix Wright games, any of the characters here, or the song that inspired OP and me. They belong to Capcom and the Barenaked Ladies (respectively), and no money is being made off of this piece of fiction. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original ideas are original (duh) and belong to me, unless otherwise mentioned. This story contains mild angst, some made-up relationship fluff, and is **unbeta'd**. Enjoy.

**Where We Used to Live**

There was a blood stain on the wood floor in the living room.

Larry was sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the closed door, one leg up so that he could wrap his arms around it while the other stretched out in front of him. There was a power drill resting beside him on one side. He had brought it just in case that stupid credit card trick he always saw guys in the movies use didn't really work. And it hadn't; he had snapped his debit card in half in the doorway before just drilling the lock out and letting himself into that familiar apartment.

There was an empty six-pack on the floor on the other side. It was the reason coming back here had seemed like such a good idea.

His eyes were on the blood stain, were on the white chalk outline the cops had drawn. It had only been a week, so no one had taken the time to really clean up the scene. Her furniture was still there, though the coffee table was in the wrong place; it must have moved a little when she fell, and then the police pushed it up against the couch to get closer to the body when they moved it.

It was hard to look away from it.

That used to be Cindy.

Larry closed his eyes and told himself he wouldn't cry. Had their life together really been a lie? He worked his ass off for her; she was his Juliet! They were meant to be, man! She always laughed at his jokes, and even if she never said 'I love you' back, it had never mattered. He _knew_ that she had loved him, even if there was no evidence. Even if she had been sleeping with those sugar-daddies, or whatever.

None of them ever stayed here, none of them got to make her breakfast in the mornings. Larry was pretty sure that he was the only guy that Cindy let into her apartment and the real part of her life, away from the cameras and photo-shoots and bitchy rival models.

There was a stack of old letters on the dining room table. Larry wondered if any of them were from him. He'd written her everyday since they broke up, had called a million times in the hope that she would answer. He hadn't realized that she had been out of the country at the time.

He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to rip apart all her photos and light this old apartment and all its memories on fire.

But this place had all the evidence that they had ever been happy, too.

He knew there was still a pink stain on the ceiling in the hallway where they'd had their Silly String war before moving to the bedroom, which led to nothing naughtier than a tickle fight. Cindy won, because she always won those fights. He knew there was a broken tile in the shower from that time she'd cornered him in there, and they had slipped, and he'd gotten a concussion but she had been fine. They used to laugh about it, and the embarrassing trip to the ER. Cindy had spent the whole drive blushing furiously in her bathrobe, trying not to look at the paramedic. She promised to never try shower sex again. He had begged her to reconsider.

The kitchen wall had a dent that was exactly the same size as Cindy's old stew pot, because she had thrown it at him when they were fighting just before the Big Break-Up. She had screamed and cried, babbling something about how they couldn't be together because this just wasn't working. Something about how he deserved so much more and she knew that he resented her, and she wasn't good enough or pretty enough or honest enough, or _something_. Larry had just held her and told her that he loved her, no matter what.

Dear God. . . had that really been the last time they talked?

Larry grabbed an empty bottle from the case and chucked it across the room, taking little satisfaction in the way it shattered against the far wall.

He should have brought more beer for this.


End file.
